Chapter 9 #2
Caged memories broke free. Phillipe, looking like a strung-out truck driver or a nineties grunge star, with his greasy long hair, beard, flannel shirt, and shit-kickers, writing in a little notebook with a chewed-up pencil that spent more time in his mouth than in his pocket.
The savory aroma of eggs, bacon, onion, and sausage mixed with the sweet smell of pancakes and that nutty coffee aroma that seemed ever-present in every diner.
Aleksei had lost the coin flip, so they’d gone to the Oregon Diner instead of the Trolley Car.
When they were in deep cover, they were always “on,” but this was downtime.
Aleksei preferred to stay farther away from their marks when they weren’t active, but Phillipe loved the creamed chipped beef at the Oregon Diner, so there they sat, on circular stools that had no back support, eating breakfast at the cracked, shiny counter.
“What’s in the notebook?” Aleksei had asked the same question so often that it had become a running joke between them.
I’m writing a novel.
My request for a new partner.
Guidance for your dumb ass when you finally land a nice woman, so you don’t fuck it up.
Phillipe’s answers were always snarky and flip, but not that time.
Aleksei squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make the fuzzy image sharper.
Kemper’s request made it imperative that he recall Phillipe’s exact words.
He was trained to remember details. This would be a walk in the park if thinking about the last breakfast he’d had with Phillipe didn’t feel like taking a machine gun to the gut.
He forced his shoulders and the muscles in his face to relax.
The soft chatter of diners filled his ears.
Their server, whose nametag read “Emily,” was brewing a fresh pot of coffee behind the counter.
Phillipe’s clean plate was pushed back, and his head was bent over the small navy-blue notebook.
The jagged scar from the alligator gar bite at the base of his thumb was shiny and white-pink on his tan hand.
He’d lifted his head, his eyes alert and serious. “It’s all the facts. Everywhere I go. Everything I do. Everything I think. It’s my secret code.”
Aleksei’s stomach dipped with the same nauseous feeling he got every time he had to jump out of a plane. He’d thought it was just one more joke. He’d fucking laughed. Had this been the one time Phillipe told the truth? Had his best friend been trying to tell him something important?
“So, do you have it? The last notebook?” Kemper demanded.
Yeah, he had it. It had been sitting on the kitchen table that hellish morning he’d woken up and realized Phillipe was gone.
Phillipe always had that goddamn notebook in his back pocket.
Of course he’d looked at it. It was half food diary and half doodle pad, with random notes mixed in.
He’d figured it had been a fucking prank.
Phillipe had always complained about his reflux. So he tracked what he ate, doodled to chill out, and pretended the notebook was more than it was. He surely got a kick out of Aleksei trying to guess what the hell he was doing.
Aleksei hadn’t given the notebook to Internal Affairs because it felt too special. It was one of the few things he had that was personal to Phillipe, and there was no reason for some random suit with a stick up his ass to know that the Reuben at the Trolley Car Diner gave Phillipe heartburn.
And Kemper wasn’t getting his hands on it without a damn good reason.
If he gave it to Kemper, he might never see it again.
This wasn’t an official op, so Kemper couldn’t give it to the code crackers.
That would raise too many questions. The notebook would have to be evaluated on the down-low.
Kemper could give it to anyone, and who knew when, or if, Aleksei would get it back.
Plus, Aleksei knew Phillipe better than anyone.
If that notebook held something important, he had a way better chance of figuring it out than Kemper did.
“I don’t think so, but I’m not sure. I’ve got a couple of boxes of stuff in the crawl space here. I’ll look when I get a chance.”
“What about in DC?” Another puff of smoke filled the line. “You got anything there? I could grab it if you give me the alarm code.”
“Nope. What little I have is here.”
That was a half-truth. He did have precious little left of Phillipe.
Samantha had given him Phillipe’s medals.
She’d want them back one day—or the boys would.
So, he was keeping them safe for them. Other than the medals, the two file boxes held photos he couldn’t bear to look at, the books Phillipe had thrust on him so he could “expand his minuscule brain a bit,” and that one little blue mini composition book full of Phillipe’s pencil scratches.
The stuff wasn’t here, though. Out of sight wasn’t out of mind. The boxes hadn’t lasted a week in the crawl space. They’d haunted him. He couldn’t bear to have those remnants of Phillipe so close, so he’d moved them to his mom’s attic in Virginia. He’d have to get his ass there ASAP.
“All right. Let me know if you find it. The other notebooks were full of nonsense, so I think it’s a long shot, but I figured I’d ask.”
“Good idea,” Aleksei said. “I have to go. I need to get back to Rosemary.”
“One more thing. Did Phillipe ever talk to you about the deliveries he did for Moresco?”
He glanced toward the closed door. Rosemary was going to be wondering what was taking him so long.
“We did most of the deliveries together, you know that. Lots of cash. Some drugs. All little shit, and all through go-betweens. If we’d done a bust, some low-level criminal would have gotten probation, maybe done a year at most, and we’d have been blown.
We weren’t under long enough for them to trust us with anything real. ”
“What about the deliveries he did with Frankie? The ones to the gelato store?”
Footsteps sounded. He recognized the click of the bathroom door and the loud whir of the fan. If he didn’t get back out there soon, Rosemary would probably come check on him.
“I assumed they were the same. Phillipe never said anything different. If you know something, spill it.”
“Cool your jets, kid. I don’t know shit. I was just going over the op files and thought about those deliveries and how that gelato place is in the same building as Pannetone & Associates. Just seemed interesting.”
Yeah. It seemed really fucking interesting.
The toilet flushed.
“I have to go. I have to take Rosemary home.”
“All right, let me know if you find that notebook.”
“Get some sleep, Gary. And lay off the cigarettes. That shit will kill you.”
“Something kills everyone, my friend. Something kills everyone.”
Kemper’s response stuck with him long after he’d disconnected the line.